


Utility and Glory

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Bathing/Washing, Clothed Sex, Dry Humping, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Frottage, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Making Out, Naked Male Clothed Male, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Smut 4 Smut Treat, Touch-Starved, Victor Frankenstein Lives, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Their cots reside on opposite sides of the room, some measure of privacy afforded by a folding screen which does little more than reside in the way and threaten to fall over each time the ship so much as changes course a centimetre. The basin has to lean against the wall out of necessity, the only spot fit for it closer to Victor's side of the room than Robert's. It would be silly to move the screen now, at this hour, for so very little.
Relationships: Victor Frankenstein/Robert Walton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Utility and Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anticyclone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/gifts).



> ETA 04/26/2020: [my tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)

It is the seventh of September, and the die falls on their continuing their voyage rather than returning home. Victor dozes through his days, but wakes enough for news of this to reach his ears. He appears as if melancholy when faced with this course of events, yet he does not express any concern or regret at this, not to Robert, not verbally. His eyes may be cast low, but he does not seem to want to speak of unspeakable things.

Days pass. Conditions improve. They are not being followed, not where any of the crew can observe, not anymore. Events to which they are not privy may have caused a change of which they are only now becoming aware. Nothing more of value occurs for a week, and the mood becomes almost hopeful. Victor himself seems like a new man, as if suddenly woken from a slumber. Weak though he may still be, he manages to rouse himself enough to wash on his own on a daily basis, requiring assistance only where undressing and dressing are concerned. Robert provides as much aid as he is able to. As much as it is allowed. He asks to do very little for him, not wanting to presume, not wanting to take advantage of Victor in his illness. Meals are consumed in silence, but the mountains of ice outside can be carefully forgotten for a time. His fever breaks, Robert's palm tingling on his forehead when he feels for his temperature, voice improbably high when he pronounces him on his way towards a speedy and steady recovery.

Although Victor's misfortunes and suffering weigh on him still, his sight lingers eagerly on the candle's flame in the evenings, a smile playing at his lips at times, and Robert comes to believe he may still be healing, his mind is, in ways which could lead to a _full_ recovery sooner than either of them could have dreamed of a week before.

On the eighth day since the decision to continue on has been made, Robert finds himself, evening already turned to night, by the wash basin, across from the bed where Victor has been spending his convalescence.

The ship is not well-heated, cannot be so given their circumstances, the choices and consequences thereof. Although their room is one of the few populated by so few and still warm to a certain degree, his skin still pebbles once he is standing solely in his smallclothes to drag the washcloth dripping with lukewarm water and watery soap across his limbs, back turned to Victor, who must surely be slumbering given the late hour. Their cots reside on opposite sides of the room, some measure of privacy afforded by a folding screen which does little more than reside in the way and threaten to fall over each time the ship so much as changes course a centimetre. The basin has to lean against the wall out of necessity, the only spot fit for it closer to Victor's side of the room than Robert's. It would be silly to move the screen now, at this hour, for so very little.

Once more the ship rocks, and Robert must drop the cloth to hold the edges of the table on which the basin resides, lest it topple over altogether. The seas temper afterwards, but a slight noise from behind him has him turning in distress.

"I did not mean to wake you," he stumbles over his words. Victor is sitting upright leaning against the wall behind him, blankets up to his chest, eyes blinking slowly, his long lashes casting dark shadows beneath his eyes.

He dispels any agitation on Robert's part by saying, "You may." His fingers, resting above the covers, almost beckon, although Robert knows he means Robert may continue on without fear of disturbing him.

And so he does. He turns away, vague impropriety colouring a flush from the centre of his face outwards, but he has been given permission to proceed, therefore he must, for there is little reason, nothing which can be spoken out loud, to stop.

When he reaches for the cloth, he finds it has grown cold to the touch, as has the water. Boiling more is out of the question at this hour, hence he must make do, and he does. His arms and back require only another pass as he was interrupted while taking care of them, but his face and chest are another matter. His nipples stand as peaks in the chill air of the room, sensitive to the coarseness of the washcloth and Robert's own precise, economic movements. The upper part of his body done, he would normally move on to his legs and lower regions, but fear it might be an imposition too far should Victor still be awake and aware of his presence halts him.

Turning to check on him, he finds a steady gaze already on his person. The flush climbs down his face to reach the middle of his chest, threatens to descend farther the more time passes. But, once more, Victor quiets him as one would a startled horse. "Mhm. I am the guest. I wouldn't dream to impose on you further than I already have." Before Robert can protest the gentle, generous words, Victor adds, "Proceed as you would regardless of my existence," not realising his so-called _existence_ has taken over Robert's entire life already.

Proceeding means disrobing completely. With trembling fingers, Robert reaches for his smallclothes, has to turn around before he can drag them to the middle of his thighs before kicking them off altogether. He washes his legs and feet summarily. He avoids his buttocks for the longest time but knows he has no reason to, and, when he finally reaches back, he endeavours to not linger for too long. Holding his breath, he reaches between his legs, washcloth particularly soapy as he passes once and then once more across his hole. He believes he hears a faint sound from behind him, but chooses not to turn until he has ended his ablutions.

Finally, hands steadier than he feels, he holds his prick in one palm while the other finishes the job at hand, as it were. Letting it go, it stands half-hard from his body, but he is confident he can disguise it still through strategic manoeuvring and the shadows cast by the lonely candle in the room.

From behind him he hears, "You wish to tease." The voice is even. Robert turns merely to ascertain it is, in fact, Victor speaking, for he sounds far healthier in his demeanour than he has since their meeting, the voice of a stranger almost.

When he has visual proof, he hurries to explain, "I would never. I have _never_ —" But how could he ever continue that confession?

Victor's eyes show he understands his meaning, yet his forthcoming words make little sense in light of such. "Now you wish to entice me utterly." Something like yearning shines in his eyes, visible even from across the room where Robert stands on legs which can barely hold him.

Idly, it occurs to him shame should lick at his heels, should prompt him to hide his now hard cock from view, but instead he finds himself walking towards Victor's bed, a shallow ringing in his ears, for he either understands _Victor's_ meaning too well, or he is completely and utterly damned. Or, perhaps, both.

"May I?" he asks once he finds himself hovering by the end of the bed, and Victor does indeed smile now, a true smile, and says, "Anything."

His head is swimming even as his knees give out beneath him and he has to seat himself by Victor's covered hips. Even as his limbs move almost of their own accord to straddle his lap, unquestionably inappropriate, lewd in ways he could not have imagined anyone ever could be before this very moment, he is aware he is the one who is doing these things. He uses Victor's chest to brace himself, to find some measure of physical balance even as his head swims.

Lips press to his cheek. The touch is a static shock as one might experience during a storm, both lightning and thunder at once in one gesture, Robert's lips parting in response. A shiver runs down his spine, and he hums in lieu of making any actual noise, which would surely embarrass him for all eternity.

Then Victor's mouth lowers to his ear, a slow movement seemingly meant to warn him off if Robert were the sort of person to run scared of Victor's touch. "I would very much like to enjoy you tonight, if you were to permit it." It's a whisper, even though there is no one else there, no one to overhear them. A moan almost tumbles from his throat, but he refrains from allowing it to escape, nodding instead, breath trembly.

Rough yet strangely assured palms grip his legs above the knees to track up to his hip bones in order to position him better above the covers where Victor's own cock surely resides. A needy whine falls from his lips at the thought alone, at the feel of fingers tracing the gooseflesh adorning his thighs. The touch is almost too much in itself. Far from anything anyone has ever bestowed upon him. His bottom lip slips between his lips. The itching pain, quick and easy as he bites down, distracts him from his need, if only for a few instants.

"I am not yet well enough for more," Victor whispers to him then, like a secret, "but I wish to give you pleasure enough for the both of us. If you were to allow it."

Robert believes he must nod assent. His uncertainty stems from the fact that lips smear against his own once Victor has stopped speaking. The touch is almost enough to do him in completely, thoughts a floating mess outside his control.

With a groan, Victor closes the distance between their chests as well, his lips pressing insistently against Robert's, mouthing eagerly until Robert moans, his lips parting when it becomes too much to hold in. Victor's tongue slips inside his mouth then, drags against his own, licks behind his teeth and draws Robert's tongue inside his mouth to suck at the tip in a way which has Robert's hips rocking instantly downwards, an inescapable rhythm building. The fabric of the covers is both too rough and not enough against his cock, which is now leaking at the slit, messing up Victor's bedding, evidence of his debauchery.

Eventually, the kiss ends, Victor's lips returning to his cheek, softer there. His palms steady Robert in his movements, guiding him towards a more subdued rhythm, one meant to last.

There is a vial of oil by the bed which Robert often uses when massaging Victor's limbs to maintain circulation while he is still at bedrest. Victor now reaches for it. He warms up the oil in his palm before pressing, with utmost confidence, into Robert's crease and down to barely graze against the rim of his hole, which twitches immediately, embarrassingly responsive to a touch it has never experienced before. He blushes further still, but posits no protestations, and Victor presses in with one digit, his other hand now at Robert's spine drawing patterns while his lips press in for another kiss, and another, and more still than Robert could ever count.

He cannot count regardless. His eyes fail to remain open in his pleasure. One finger becomes two, both inside of him to the root with little hesitation, pressing in and stretching him, pulling out to play at his rim while Victor's other hand now kneads at the underside of his arse and Robert's hips reacquaint themselves with their earlier desperately rapid motions. Oil dribbles down his crease, though the biggest mess is from his cock dragging back and forth until it is all too much.

It has all of it been _too much_. More than any dream of fortune and bliss.

Robert tries to warn him. Tries his best. But Victor's tongue is in his mouth, and his hands scrambling at his shoulders for purchase instead of pushing him away do little to inform him of Robert's state, and, with a final relentless press of fingers inside and no means of stopping himself, he comes between them, smearing the covers shamefully. His lips tingle when Victor abandons them in favour of covering his face with soft kisses and gentling him with both hands at the small of his back. Aftershocks abandon him with little hurry, his eyes already falling at half-mast despite continued attempts to keep them open, to keep himself awake to speak whatever apologies he rationalises he should utter in his defence.

Eventually, the candle must waver and die out, but Robert can only feel confident hands pulling him into a tight embrace, the ship rocking him into a dreamless sleep, gentle lips at his temple.


End file.
